


you're giving love instinctively

by tinypi



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other people get a mention, Very Bad knock knock jokes, injuries, small spaces
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 23:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10450398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinypi/pseuds/tinypi
Summary: They're in deep shit.





	

Bruce wakes to concrete about two inches away from his face. He’s being dragged - or carried, maybe? - because the concrete is moving but he sure isn’t.  
  
“-waking up,” someone says from somewhere.

“ _Motherfuckers-_ ” a much more familiar voice to his left shouts, followed by something about punching and genitals. With a near-gargantuan effort Bruce moves his head and fixes his eyes on Clint long enough to see that he is bleeding from at least three places on his face alone, which isn’t necessarily out of the norm, but it’s still worrying.

“Quick, the cage,” the first voice says and Bruce loses sight of Clint as he’s pulled forwards some more.

The cage- the _box_ , really, is clearly not built for two grown men. Clint, still struggling and lashing out at the group of thugs, is thrown in first, body hitting the solid steel walls with a dull sound. Bruce is unceremoniously dumped half besides, half on top of him.

Someone catches his left arm and attaches it to a cuff on the wall beside him. Clint kicks out and does something with his throat that’s either a grunt or a laugh when he catches someone in the nose, blood splattering on his heel. His head gets shoved back against the wall with a dull _clang_ that reverberates through Bruce’s own skull.

In a matter of seconds his right hand is pushed towards Clint’s crotch and another cuff clicks closed around his wrist, then his uncooperative legs are shoved into the box along with Clint’s, the door crashes closed and they’re left in absolute darkness.

Harsh breathing cuts through the black. It takes Bruce several moments to recognize it as his own.

He can feel Hulk shrugging off the last effects of whatever drug he was hit with, can feel him ready to break out and explode the walls of their prison into their captors’ bodies and he could do it, too, the box was sturdy but nowhere near Hulk-sturdy, but Clint is _right there._

A high-pitched whine followed by soft little grunts cuts through his thoughts and Bruce latches onto the distraction, concentrates on his surroundings long enough to realize he’s pulling at both his cuffs, the muscles in his wrists bulging and growing to strain against the metal.

 _Not here, not here, not here,_ he thinks. _Cupid,_ he thinks and says it out loud for good measure, focuses on Clint’s breathing, the points of contact where their sides are pressed close together, the smell of Clint’s sweat and blood. Focuses on Clint’s fingers tapping a steady rhythm against his inner thigh.

Gradually, Bruce stops feeling like he’s about to burst out of his own skin. Hulk is clearly unsatisfied with the situation, but he’s not stupid and, like so many other things, he shares Bruce’s fondness for Clint. A soft rumble glides through Bruce’s mind, the equivalent of his bigger half handing him the reins for the moment.

Their prison box, Bruce ascertains once he lets himself be aware of his full surroundings, is really nothing to write home about. His shoulders are boxed in between the wall on his left and Clint on his right and his legs are already hurting from the crossed position they were forced into when the door closed on them. It occurs to him that they might run out of air, but if the box were airtight they should already be feeling it. Lazily, he tests the cuff attaching his arm to the wall, which gets him exactly nowhere.

Tugging at the cuffed hand that currently rests on Clint’s thigh however sets off several very unexpected reactions. Clint’s own hand jerks in Bruce’s lap, disrupting the steady rhythm Clint was still tapping on Bruce’s thigh. Instead, Clint audibly grits his teeth, huffs out harsh, pained breaths.

“Clint! Sorry, are you-” Bruce starts, only to be cut off by Clint violently shushing him.

He leaves his teammate to breathe through whatever pain Bruce must have caused him and takes the time to figure out that his right hand is not, as he’d previously assumed, connected to the floor but actually cuffed to Clint’s left hand. When he dares to move enough to grip onto Clint’s inner thigh, he can feel the chain of the handcuff moving beneath their legs.

It’s pretty smart, really. The box is too narrow, they can’t move their legs to lift the chain over them and the crossed position of their arms effectively renders them near immobile.

“Sorry,” Bruce whispers once Clint’s breathing has returned to something approaching normal. “Do you-”

“Shhh,” Clint hisses again.

Bruce is a little miffed at that, honestly. He concentrates on his own breathing and the steady tapping Clint has once again started up against his inner thigh instead.

_Oh._

He follows the rhythm carefully, one-one, one-two, one-three, and waits until it goes from two-five to three-one before scratching his fingernail against the rough material of Clint’s jeans.

Clint stops.

Taking a moment to lay out the five-by-five grid of tap code in his mind, Bruce carefully starts tapping his own fingers against Clint’s thigh.

Four-four, one-one, three-five. TAP.

Next to him, Clint huffs out a small laugh. Four-five, then he drags his finger across Bruce’s leg, two-two, three-four, four-four, another drag, two-four, four-four. U GOT IT.

As proud of this achievement as Bruce is and as warm and reassuring as Clint’s fingers are against his thigh, none of this trouble makes all too much sense to him. Five-four. Y.

 _Listening_ , Clint spells slowly. _Hulk out._

Bruce only shakes his head in answer. Clint contemplates this for a while and eventually traces a question mark on his leg.

_Hurt you._

Clint pushes out a slow breath. _I’ll be fine._

_Crush you before walls give._

This does give Clint pause. As many strides as Bruce has made in communicating with Hulk, understanding him and how he works and thinks, changing to the Hulk is still a violent, painful and very much destructive act. It’s easier when he willingly hands over control, but it’s still too big of a risk. Clint knows this.

 _Maybe not then_ , Clint taps after a while.

 _Maybe not_ , Bruce agrees. _Tony trace me._ He’s got every confidence that Tony will do just that. The only problem is that someone has to notice they’re gone first.

_How long._

Bruce shrugs. Clint sighs deeply, pushing out air through clenched teeth and Bruce can feel it when he lays his head against the wall behind them. He wonders just how hurt Clint is, wishes he could have gotten a better look earlier. Not that it would do either of them much good.

Bruce is trying to figure out what to do or if there is actually anything he can do at all when Clint shuffles impossibly closer and rests his head on Bruce’s shoulder. He’s very warm and probably just smeared blood all over his shirt, but Bruce honestly doesn’t care. He presses a careful kiss into Clint’s sweaty hair, satisfied when he can feel his muscles move into a smile.

Clint’s breathing doesn’t sound all that great and he can’t help thinking back to focusing himself with the steady rhythm of Clint’s fingers.

 _Knock knock_ , he taps after a moment’s thoughts.

 _Who’s there_ , Clint replies dutifully.

_Urine._

_Urine who._

_Urine secure dunno what for._

For a few seconds, nothing happens. Then Clint suddenly bites into the worn flannel of Bruce’s shirt in an obvious attempt to keep from laughing. He’s only half successful.

 _Terrible,_ he replies. _Tap tap._

Bruce traces a question mark.

_Annie._

_Annie who._

_Annie thing you can do, I can do better._

 

**

 

The team storms in, guns blazing, five hours later. By this point they have exhausted their well of increasingly terrible tap tap jokes and Clint has nodded off on Bruce’s shoulder.

Bruce takes a good minute to adjust to the sudden light after hours in the box, but when he does he quickly has to clamp down on a wide range of feelings. Clint is incredibly pale, except of course for the spots of blood and the dark purple bruising all along his very, very broken wrist, which he had been using to tap onto Bruce’s thigh for hours.

Once the cuffs are off, Clint curls further into Bruce. “It’s okay,” Bruce murmurs into his hair, looking at Steve who is crouched half in front of the box, waiting. “It’s okay, we’re okay.”

He lets Steve lift Clint up and into his arms, super soldier strength holding him perfectly still as he begins a very slow trek towards the exit.

Bruce himself crawls out on shaky limbs, attempting to stand and immediately dropping back onto the floor again. The pins and needles are so bad there are tears in his eyes and he has to bite his lip to stop from crying out. Bruce is incredibly glad Clint isn’t awake for this part. Thor is busy carrying unconscious bad guys around and Tony is pacing endlessly between them all.

It’s Natasha who gracefully sits down on the floor next to him. She doesn’t say anything, just breathes slow, deep, even breaths, which he begins to match after several minutes. When his movements stop resembling those of a newborn deer, Thor helps him into the quinjet.

Apparently the guys that snatched them never actually meant to take Clint. He’d just been… inconveniently there as well and when he made too much of a scene they decided to take him as some sort of collateral, which means they still have no idea Clint’s presence is the only reason they’re still alive. Bruce would laugh if it was actually funny.

Clint sleeps on the jet and then he sleeps in medical, regaining his familiar Iowa tan by the hour. His wrist is plastered in a thick cast and his cracked ribs are wrapped up tightly. _I’ve had worse_ , is what he’ll say when Bruce talks to him about using a badly broken arm despite literally driving himself into shock over it, which is true, but it doesn’t really make anything better. Bruce stretches his legs out on Clint’s bed, because he can, tapping lazy patterns onto Clint’s uninjured hand until the fingers twitch towards his.

He looks up to find Clint smiling at him, dazed with pain medication and sleep.

Two-three, two-four. _Hi_.

“Hey,” Clint mumbles back, smile softening.

 _Tap tap_ , Bruce spells out and Clint manages half an eyeroll, but he does go along with it.

“Who’s there?”

_Tex._

“Tex who?”

“Tex two to tango.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from Diana Ross' _Upside Down_ , which is a beautifully cheesy song. Summary courtesy of [vulpesvortex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vulpesvortex/pseuds/vulpesvortex), also known as [Beren](http://foxesonstilts.tumblr.com/) or, if all else fails, light of my life who is nice enough to reassure me about many, many things.
> 
> [Tap code](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tap_code) is easier to learn and recognize than morse code and was frequently used by POW to communicate with one another, relay plans and, well, keep sane.


End file.
